<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Service à la Russe by DelusionsbyBonnie</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22927750">Service à la Russe</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/DelusionsbyBonnie/pseuds/DelusionsbyBonnie'>DelusionsbyBonnie</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Battle for London in the Air (Roleplay)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M, Gen, post-Season 1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 06:41:42</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,364</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22927750</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/DelusionsbyBonnie/pseuds/DelusionsbyBonnie</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Andrew has been happily married to his beautiful pirate captain wife for over ten years, but one thing that revolution did not prepare him for was the social obligations that came along with his marriage.  With Cordelia's new, aboveboard role as an airship instructor come new and fashionable connections, and unfortunately for Andrew, new and harrowing social situations.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Andrew O'Rourke/Captain Cordelia French</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Battle for London-in-the-Air Canon</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. The Machinery of Society</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>It's 1908!  I'm picturing Cordelia wearing something like this glorious Callot Soeurs gown, but maybe in a royal blue?<br/>https://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/158321</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>Etiquette is the machinery of society.  It is like a wall built up around us to protect us from disagreeable, underbred people who refuse to take the trouble to be civil.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Cordelia!  White waistcoat or green?”  Andrew stood helplessly in front of the wardrobe, trying to button his shirt with one hand.  The other hung gingerly at his side, swathed in bandages from the burn he’d gotten the day before.  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Green.  This dinner is not formal enough for the white.”  Cordelia snapped off the thread with her teeth and stabbed the needle back into the pincushion on her dressing table.  “Stop that! I can do it.” She shook out the black dinner jacket, laying it over the rumpled bedclothes, and crossed the room in a few quick strides.  She batted his good hand aside and finished buttoning up the shirt, finishing with a smile and an affectionate pat to his chest.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He returned the smile, resting a hand on the small of her back.  “Thank you. I hate feeling so damned useless.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Then use the tongs and not your hand next time, my love.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“That was-- ah, no you don’t!”  Two giggling children sprinted into the room, hotly pursued by a third.  Andrew scooped up the first one with one arm. “Brendan Patrick O’Rourke, what the devil are you about?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Put me down, Da!” Brendan protested, squirming in his father’s grip.  His twin joined the fray, leaping onto Andrew’s shoulders.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Put him down, Da!  Aine’s bossing us again!”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aine, looking thunderous, barred the doorway, looming as best as a ten-year-old could.  “They’re being hooligans, Mam! I told ‘em to stay out!”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Where is Miss Phelan?”  Cordelia lifted her daughter off her husband’s back, setting her firmly on her own two feet.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Cleaning up the glass,” Bridget answered, avoiding her mother’s eyes.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“What glass?” Andrew demanded, releasing his son.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“It was an accident!  We were just playing--”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Bridget said we could use broomsticks for pikes!”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“We just wanted to be croppies, but Aine said not inside--”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Cordelia raised an imperious hand, silencing her children.  “Aine is right. Pikes are an outdoor weapon. Go apologize to Miss Phelan and help her clean up whatever mess you’ve made.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aine, looking vindicated, lingered in the doorway after her siblings had straggled away.  “When will I be old enough to go to dinner parties?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Andrew scoffed, fumbling with his waistcoat as Cordelia turned back to her mirror.  “I wish I wasn’t old enough to go to dinner parties. Bunch of rich Englishmen and their wives talking nonsense over too-rich food.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“But I want to wear pretty dresses like Mam!  Or nice suits like you. I like that waistcoat.  You look nice, like Uncle Doc.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Andrew laughed and planted a kiss on his eldest child’s head.  “Thank you, Aine. Why don’t you help your mam with her buttons for now?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aine nodded reluctantly and turned to her mother.  The back of Cordelia’s dress, a confection of Irish lace and lush velvet, had a neat row of small buttons designed for a lady with means enough to employ a maid.  Andrew usually filled this role, a situation both of them enjoyed. The buttons were done up faster with Aine’s help than his, though. Even with limited time, he couldn’t resist lingering over the tattoo between her shoulderblades, twin of the one on his own arm.  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aine finished the last button and reached for a glittering hair comb.  “I think you should wear this one, Mam.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Not tonight.  That one’s for special occasions.  Do you remember the story of how we found this comb in Spain?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You had all sorts of adventures without me.”  Aine pouted, a touch of ill temper returning.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You’ll have your own adventures in time, </span>
  <em>
    <span>mo chroi</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  I promise you.”  Andrew patted her shoulder.  “Will you go and see if the cab’s waiting yet?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, Da.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Cordelia stood and shook out her skirts with a sigh, straightening the jacket on her husband’s shoulders.  “That child is entirely too much like the both of us.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Sure, I don’t know what we expected.”  Andrew gave his wife a crooked smile. “You could always take her tonight instead.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Good lord, can you imagine?  No, we’ll at least wait until she learns which parts of your stories are fit for public consumption.”  Cordelia grinned, tucking the ends of his cravat into his waistcoat. “Dear husband, I believe you are ready.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Thank you, lovely wife.  Saints and angels, look at you!  I’m the luckiest man alive.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Even if I drag you to dinner parties full of Englishmen and nonsense?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Even if you do.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Obviously Struggling</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <i>Avoid, if possible, the appearance of trying hard not to be vulgar. It is perhaps better to make a few mistakes than to be obviously struggling not to make them.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>The front of the house was ablaze with electric lights as the motorcab pulled up to let them alight.  Andrew whistled softly.  “Your friend isn’t half posh, is he?”</p><p>“Coworker, not friend.  He and his wife have recently moved here from Edinburgh.”  The unspoken meaning hung in the air between them--not one of us, not a friend of the rebellion, just an outsider.  Not someone who knew why the lovely and high-flying Captain French-O’Rourke was married to a peasant blacksmith.  Andrew silently said a quick prayer that he knew at least one other guest.</p><p>They were ushered into the drawing room, where Andrew was introduced to his hostess, Mrs Grenville.  She tittered with delight over his accent and pressed a glass of sherry into his gloved hands.  He managed to stifle the wince as his burned hand gripped the glass automatically, though he lost the thread of the conversation.  Thankfully, it seemed that Mrs Grenville was not so much a conversationalist as an expert lecturer in pleasantries, and his inattention was not noticed.  </p><p>Captain Grenville circled his way back to his wife through the collection of guests, and Andrew bit down hard on his tongue as they exchanged a firm handshake.  Cordelia’s concerned glance was diverted by Mrs Grenville, who insisted that the couple be introduced to their dining partners.  This meant that Andrew was whisked away to the other side of the room by his hostess and presented to a small woman with a thin and pleasant face.</p><p>“Mrs Lydia Preston, may I present Mr Andrew O’Rourke?  Mr O’Rourke’s wife is the lady captain of my husband’s acquaintance.”</p><p>“How do you do, Mr O’Rourke?”  Mrs Preston smiled politely and offered her hand.  It seemed smaller than Aine’s in his large palm, but thankfully her handshake was as delicate as she herself seemed.</p><p>“How d’you do, Mrs Preston.”  Andrew fought the urge to crouch beside her like she was one of his children.  He didn’t know what the proper etiquette was for being at least a foot taller than one’s conversational partner, but he didn’t think it involved hunching.</p><p>“You’ll pardon me now!”  Mrs Grenville bustled off, accosting a newly arrived couple in welcome.</p><p>Andrew shifted his weight, trying not to fidget.  Mrs Preston watched him with a bird-like curiosity, her head tilted slightly.  He felt sweat prickle under his collar.  “And how is it that you know the Grenvilles?” he asked, flailing for a safe topic of conversation.</p><p>“Oh, Mrs Grenville is a very old friend.  We were at finishing school together.  And you?”</p><p>“My wife works with Captain Grenville.  Have you met?”  He gulped a mouthful of sherry.</p><p>“Ah yes, the lady captain.  Of course.  I’ve not had the pleasure.  Perhaps you can introduce us later.”</p><p>“Sure, I’d be happy to.”  Damn the woman, wasn’t staring supposed to be rude?  He felt overlarge and grubby under her gaze.</p><p>She smiled politely and sipped from her glass.  “Thank you, Mr O’Rourke.  Oh, do excuse me, I must say hello to Mrs Ainsworth.”</p><p>She floated away, leaving Andrew to slump against the wall in relief.  If this was the first ten minutes, what sort of agony would the rest of the night be?  He glumly swirled the remaining sherry in his glass, staring across the room as his wife laughed at something he couldn’t hear.  Next time she had a dinner party, he’d have to develop a sudden fever.</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>